schadenfreude
by raisuki
Summary: In which Light is an actor, L is a director, and occasionally they have sex. L/Light, AU.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N - I finally churned this piece of shit out. Shout out to Dana, aka danathelaugh on tumblr, for agreeing to beta this train wreck, as well as all my friends on tumblr dot com for their encouragement. **

* * *

The morning of the 12th of August was golden and bright and made Light want to die.

A sickly dawn had just begun to seep through the clouds, the first indicator of morning. It was late enough to be clear—but early enough to still be bitingly cold. Light pulled his sleeves further over his hands and distastefully took another sip of his drink.

Other people were bustling around, busied with scripts or talking to crewmembers, but Light was perfectly content to sit in his chair, scathingly watching his co-stars and colleagues from behind his flask.

He was happy to be sitting there, silently sipping his coffee, until Naomi appeared in his line of vision. Her dark hair was piled on her head, and her arms were filled with papers Light could guess were probably pretty important. Her face was set in a frustrated scowl.

"Hello," he said absently, choosing to ignore her obvious hostility. He was exhausted—there was nothing more he hated in the world than getting up early. 5am was the time farmers got up—or insomniacs went to sleep. It was far too early for someone as important as him. The only salvation he had found had been in the instant coffee available in the food hall—it was bitter and cheap and Light couldn't get enough.

"Hello?" Naomi's eyes narrowed and she stared down her nose at him, "I've been looking for you for ages. Come on, we start filming soon."

She grabbed Light's wrist, and he couldn't help but feel that she was an overprotective mother with her disobedient child in tow. Which, he supposed, he was.

"You need to stop acting like such a Primadonna, Light. It's not endearing, and you're not that important."

"Yes, I am."

"That's what I'm talking about, you lack modesty."

"I don't have anything to be modest about."

Naomi turned and frowned at him, "Please, Light."

Light's stubbornness subsided. God, he hated when that happened.

He let himself be pulled along to the makeup artist's trailer without further protest. Naomi deposited him outside, flashing him a warning look. Like him, exhaustion affected her, however, unlike him, she channeled it through prickliness and hostility, instead of apathy and moodiness.

There was something strangely comforting about the makeup trailer, in the same way there was something strangely comforting about Merrie. Light would never, ever tell her that, though.

Inside, it was full colorful pots and powders, and in the center of it all, sat Merrie, cigarette dangling from her ruby lips. Light had known her for ten years now, but in all that time, she hadn't changed, and it was impossible to think she'd be turning 30 this year.

"You tow me around like a suitcase, you know that, Light?"

"I think you're the only makeup artist I can stand."

"Should I be flattered?"

"Definitely. I can't stand many people—not just makeup artists."

She looked over her sunglasses at Light, who didn't bother to ask before plopping down the chair opposite her, setting his flask on the table.

"How have you been, Light?"

"You know it's considered rude to wear sunglasses indoors."

One neatly stencilled eyebrow shot up. "Oh. I forgot how unpleasant you are at this time in the morning."

Light snorted, leaning back slightly in his chair, "I'm always unpleasant. That's what you should have said."

Merrie clicks her tongue, pushing her sunglasses up her head and poking through some brightly colored bottles, "You aren't," she says softly, "not always."

"Well, in that case, I'm probably pretending. You do this horrible thing where you make me feel bad when I'm rude."

"I don't think that's exclusive to me, Light. One of these days, someone other than me is gonna call you out on your bullshit. You'll find someone who doesn't give a damn how rich your daddy is."

To other people, their conversation may have sounded malicious, but to them it was just the banter they'd always thrown back and forth. They did this everyday. Light would make deadpan, sarcastic remarks, because those were what felt right, and Merrie would wistfully recall the days he didn't.

"Haven't found them yet, doubt I will anytime soon. Maybe when I'm older. And uglier."

"Oh, Light." She says, turning around, "you were such a sweet kid ten years ago. What happened?"

"I grew up."

With a sigh, she stooped to his level, her blue eyes set on his. Light was reminded of when he was twelve, being equal parts intimidated and in awe of the woman before him. Merrie sighed, her brows creasing slightly. For a second, Light thought she would say something, but instead she just grabbed his chin and proceeded to stab his cheek with a contouring brush.

"I'll need to get this done fairly quickly," she murmured, "which could be tricky—considering the bags under your eyes make you look worse than Lawliet."

His name charged the atmosphere, and Light repressed a snicker. Instead, he let a small smile grace his lips, "Are you excited to see the director?"

"Be quiet, little boy."

He batted his eyelashes, pouting slightly, "- Just a question."

"Stop moving your face."

Light didn't see much point in disobeying her, but spent the next few minutes watching Merrie from the corner of his eyes. She was doing her best to avoid his smug eyes by preoccupying herself with powdering his face.

Despite his remarks, Light still felt slightly bad. He had been the one who had agreed to work with acclaimed director L. Lawliet—eccentric, award winning genius and Merrie's ex-husband.

"Have you seen any of his films?" Merrie asked a few minutes later, her voice soft. Something flickered in her eyes.

"I started a few," he admitted, "never finished them. They're all very long, and I have better things to do."

She smiled at him, in a way that could almost be motherly.

"You remind me of him, sometimes, you know that?"

"We're both acclaimed geniuses of our respective fields?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of you're both misanthropic, self-obsessed assholes."

They were quiet for a few moments longer, Merrie tapping and powdering his cheeks and under his eyes, her lips pursed with concentration.

"The endings are the best part, Light." She said, "Of his films, I mean. They make the movie."

"I know how this one ends. Depressingly."

"You don't die. Which, considering L's history of killing off cute little kids, is pretty impressive."

"I'm twenty-four."

"As I said, little kid." She leaned back, admiring her handiwork, "done."

She stepped away from him, dusting her hands off. A few dust particles landed on her black dress, and she dusted those off too. Light would always wonder how the hell she managed to get away with wearing black dresses.

He touched his face gingerly. Light couldn't ever get used to wearing makeup—no matter how many years he spent with powder and foundation on, he'd never get used to the awkward, clinging feeling of the stuff.

"Go play nice with the other kids."

"Whatever," Light called to her as he made his way out the door. Before he could leave, he turned back to look at her.

"Oh, and Merrie?"

"Yes?"

"He's an asshole. For ditching you, I mean."

"He didn't _ditch_ me."

"Right."

Script in hand, he made his way towards the set. He pulled the hood of his coat over his head, hoping it would deem him unrecognizable. He was far too exhausted with the world to try and interact with everyone, and hoped his cold expression and under-eye circles would communicate this to them. Sadly, it didn't, as he could see his co-star, Misa Amane waving animatedly at him from behind the lighting panels.

"Yagami-kun!"

Light felt bad for finding her irritating. She was sweet, but, for his taste at least, a little overbearing. And generally, Light liked his co-stars how he liked his suits. Professional and most certainly not trying to talk to him.

He smiled politely at her, and she came running over (or hobbling, Light thought would be a more accurate term, as it was the only typee of movement those heels could possibly allow.)

"Ah, Light-kun! Nice to see you! I can call you Light, right?"

"Uh—okay." No, it was most certainly _not_.

"I'm so happy to get to finally meet Lawliet-san," her eyes glazed over briefly, "he's so talented!"

Light nodded, feeling slightly embarrassed for knowing shit-all about the acclaimed director he would be working with. Especially since a girl who Light knew for a fact had been an idol, did. For fucks sake. Hardly the height of culture.

Amane looked at him, as if expecting him to make some input. Light found himself nodding along to her words.

"His work is very…. thought provoking."

Thought provoking. Yes, that was a good word. Anything could be thought provoking if you looked at it in the right way.

Amane smiled, flashing him her white teeth, and opened her mouth to say something. Before she could, someone was clapping their hands together, calling for their attention. Light glanced over. Speak of the devil.

L. Lawliet had the look, in Light's opinion, of someone trying to look like they didn't care. It was hard to place whether he was Asian or Caucasian, since he was in the perpetual state of looking like a meth addict, making the distinction tricky. He was slightly slouched, dressed in a thrift store-esque blazer and ugly trousers.

Christ.

Light had seen photographs of the guy—but he hadn't met him in the flesh before. Maybe he was going for the 'eccentric genius' look. He definitely had the 'eccentric' part down.

"If we could get in our places, please." He drawled. Even though he didn't stand straight, with his chin up, like Light did, the way he carried himself gave him an aura of arrogance—one Light had come to recognize in himself. It wasn't atypical for a director, though. In fact Light would go as far to say it was more common than not.

"You don't have your script?" Amane said under her breath.

"Don't need it."

"But we only got them recently! There's no way you'll remember your lines!"

Light shrugged.

"Just go for it," Lawliet called to them flatly, seating himself in the director's chair, "like you did in the read through."

"Apparently he stops you all the time," she murmured, traces of reverence in her voice, "because he's so pedantic."

Amane, however, was apparently wrong, since Lawliet didn't stop them once as they trudged through their lines. Amane said her lines in the slightly stiff, unsure way that people who had just started to learn their lines did. But just hearing the words made remembering Light's lines easy—quickly the image of his script was conjured in his mind—and Light hardly had to think to feel the words roll off his tongue. Amane's eyes darted over to Lawliet every once in awhile. Light couldn't see his face, but he could see the hint of surprise in Amane's, which, he supposed, told him something.

Light's character—Takuji—was a nice guy. He smiled at almost everyone—he was affable, well mannered and endearing. He wasn't hard to get into the head of.

The scene was quick—and before long, Lawliet was shouting 'cut!' from his director's chair. When Light looked over, he could see Lawliet was lounging in it like an oversized cat, watching them thoughtfully. His gaze was scrutinizing, and Light resisted the urge to squirm.

"Not bad," he said after a while. Amane's muscles seemed to relax, and without realizing, Light realized his hands had begun to dig into his palms, "I'll go over some notes with you individually."

The crew began to disperse, and from the corner, Merrie stalked over, a trail of cigarette smoke following her. Her eyes were obscured by dark sunglasses, but Light could guess that her gaze was following Lawliet, who was dutifully listening to the lighting director tell him something whilst taking slurping sips of his coffee.

"What?" Light asked her when she drew nearer.

She smirked at the ground, "I'm impressed. Normally he has a lot to say—you must have surprised him."

"Oh. Well, that's nice, I suppose."

"God, Light. For such a good actor you're incredibly boring. You're never surprised at anything."

It was then that Lawliet decided to wonder over, hands plunged in his pockets and his back slightly slumped. He regarded Merrie awkwardly, giving her a stiff nod.

"Merrie." He hesitated, "-san."

"Lawliet." She didn't bother with the honorific.

"How have you been?"

She sniffed, "Fine."

Lawliet nodded again, his attention shifting to Light, who was watching the scene with vague amusement.

"Nice as it is to see you, Merrie, I'm actually here to speak with Yagami-kun. Would you mind?"

Light wasn't quite sure whether he was asking him or Merrie.

"Oh, sure." Merrie said. She cast the two of them a fleeting glance, and made her way back to her trailer.

Lawliet watched her off, then gestured to his own trailer.

"Shall we?"

Light nodded. He avoided Lawliet's gaze, keeping his eyes set somewhere in the middle distance. Whenever Light met his eyes he couldn't shake the feeling that he was under a microscope.

Lawliet's trailer was messy—far too messy for Light's liking. The floor was littered with sweet wrappers and script pages, the curtains were half open and clothes were draped over the chairs. Light scrunched up his nose, not bothering to mask his discomfort.

"Sorry about the mess." Lawliet said. He didn't sound sorry at all. "You can sit if you want to."

Light politely declined.

L sat quickly on the revolving chair nearest to his desk, causing it to skid slightly. He began to finger through the papers on his desk.

"I was impressed by your performance," he said solemnly, as if he was admitting something he didn't want to, "you learned your lines very quickly."

"I have a good memory," Light returned, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Apparently so. I do have some other pointers, though."

Light furrowed his brows, "You didn't tell me them at the time?"

"Normally I would, but a many of them only just came into my mind."

Light internally snorted. _Of course they did. _

"I have a question first, though, Light-kun. May I call you Light-kun?"

"If you want to."

Lawliet watched him for a second, with a look on his face that Light couldn't quite place.

"Do you like him?" He asked suddenly.

"I'm sorry?"

"Your character, Takuji." Lawliet elaborated, "do you like him?"

Light pondered his words a few seconds, thinking about what he could remember of his character.

"No," he said finally, "I don't think I do."

"Why not? He's a nice guy."

Light wrinkled his nose, "He's spineless. He tells people exactly what they want to hear, even if it's not true. Can you really say he's nice?"

**L took in his words, giving him a slight grin, "How cynical of you."**

He pulled himself towards his laptop, typing something Light couldn't see, his gaze occasionally shifting to Light, and then back to his computer. He sat with one leg drawn to his chest, Light noticed distantly.

"I met you a few years ago, Light-kun." He said, "six years ago. I was meeting your father. I was completely unknown at the time, you probably wouldn't remember me—you had probably interacted with people far more memorable than me."

"I remember," Light insisted. And he did. He recalled meeting him at a party, a buzzing feeling in his head. He remembered Lawliet's ivory skin and odd mannerisms, so different in the sea of conformity. Or at least, celebrity's particular brand of conformity. "You were hard to forget. I only met you briefly, but you haven't changed too much."

"You have."

"What did you think of me at the time?"

"I hardly talked to you. You seemed like a nice kid," his eyebrow twitched, "you're different now."

"I'm older now."

Lawliet rolled his eyes, "That's the problem with famous children," he muttered, almost quiet enough for Light not to hear, "they don't stay children. Invariably they just grow up into narcissistic adults. "

Light's affability dissolved, "That's not true." He objected.

"I'd disagree. Whether it's fourteen or forty—they all tip over the edge eventually."

"Well, thanks for your view on things," Light snapped, "I don't think I asked for it, though."

Lawliet watched him in the way that an adult would watch a particularly hopeless child—and Light resisted the urge to ring his neck. Instead, his eyes wandered across the room. The only thing he could see that seemed to have been treated with care were the film posters hung on the walls—Light recognized the bright red background of one as one of Lawliet's own—one that had come out a few years ago. He hadn't seen it—but he remembered it winning lots of awards.

"You said that you didn't like Takuji," Lawliet said nonchalantly, "because he was fake."

"I didn't say 'fake'." 'Fake' made him sound like a bitter teenage girl.

"Not in so many words." Lawliet began to tap away on his keyboard again, "Why don't you play that?"

"Play what?"

"The mask. You're a pretending to be someone who's pretending to be something else. Play _that_."

"The casting call said nothing about him being fake. It said he was a nice guy—that's just my personal opinion."

"The script's just words on a page. You're character will be way more interesting if you play them the way you think they are."

"Does it really matter whether my character has depth or not? He's a plot device. He doesn't need depth. The story doesn't rely on his depth."

"Shoko, the girl who makes me coffee. She's not significant to your life, does that mean she doesn't have any depth?"

Light sighed, "You know what you sound like? You sound like a kids' director who's trying to make the supporting roles feel like they actually matter."

"They do."

Light rolled his eyes so hard it gave him a headache.

"I'll take it on board, Lawliet-san." Light pulled the trailer door across, gritting his teeth as he was hit with cold air, "Thanks."

"L would be fine."

Light's head snapped towards Lawliet, "pardon?"

"L. L will be fine."

"Wait—L doesn't stand for anything?" Light said, before he could stop himself.

Lawliet frowned, "you thought it was my initial?"

Light stood there for a few seconds.

"Huh," he said, "well, I guess I'm not really in a position to make a comment—since my name is Light-spelt-with-the-kanji-for-moon."

Lawliet—L—laughed. It was low and guttural and Light thought he might like it—if the guy wasn't as completely insufferable as he was. It was a shame, really, he thought. Maybe he might have liked L, had his holier-than-thou attitude not been there. With a sigh, he made his way back to his trailer.

* * *

That night, in his hotel room, Light spent his time skimming L's filmography on Wikipedia. There was no way he'd be able to watch all of them in one night—so he figured watching all the trailers and then reading the Wikipedia articles was close enough.

When Light thought of so called 'great directors' he thought of people who had somehow found a winning formula—and managed to bullshit themselves various awards through using this formula over and over again—just altering the locations, setting and characters.

But many of Lawliet's films didn't even share _nationality_, let alone motifs. A low budget French flick about the struggles of a Parisian rentboy. The story of a schoolteacher in East Germany. A famous, but controversial, American film on the genocide of the Native Americans, as told by a white nationalist. A strange, surreal fantasy set in Edwardian England. A gritty re-telling of Macbeth in the distant future. Light wondered if Lawliet drew his themes, settings, archetypes and characters out of hats. They all seemed to work, though, as not one had been poorly received.

This film, the one Light was working on, would be his eighth in nine years. God, the guy must have near inhuman resolve.

His first film— _L'hôtel Du Sud_—was near impossible to find. But eventually, Light found a copy in the darkest corners of Amazon—and with a sigh, added it to his cart.

* * *

L sat on the stool by the bar, a cocktail glass grasped loosely in his fingertips. No one here seemed to recognize him—which felt like both a blessing and a curse. L wasn't normally one for huge amounts of attention, but that didn't mean he didn't like walking into a bar and knowing everyone else knew he was important. Save the bar attendant, maybe, since L's first couple of drinks had been 'on the house.'

The hotel wasn't the fanciest—and L could certainly afford better—but there was something comforting about the place. His room was overstuffed, and the bar was filled with a bunch of forty-somethings complaining about their respective wives—as well as each other's—but it felt familiar. All his life, when travelling, L had stayed in places like this, and it wasn't a habit he particularly wanted to break. Besides, fancy hotels felt like being put on a pedestal. An awkward, squeaky-clean pedestal.

L knocked back his cocktail. He had a theory that he actually worked better when slightly hung over, since he didn't have the energy to make the weaker actors burst into tears. That, according to his former personal assistant, was something he needed to work on.

But with his current film… to be blunt—he hated the entire cast. He should have played it safe, instead of bringing in a bunch of wild cards. A idol turned 'serious' actress, known for occasionally doing well and shocking everyone, a couple semi well known indie actors and actresses, and the son of a once acclaimed director.

Light Yagami. How could he forget? He'd easily be the biggest name involved in the entire thing—save himself—even if it was more for Yagami's last name. L hated him the most, even if he had to admit he was a decent actor, especially for someone who was simply famous for being related to someone once talented.

He was an asshole, though. In the ways that kids who had grown up as disgustingly rich as he had always were.

L took another sip from his drink, relishing the cool feeling of it running down his throat. He scrunched up his nose as he caught the smell of smoke and looking up, his eyes landed on none other than Misa Amane, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders and lips painted pink. She looked stark against the black and white of the bar, the air misty and saturated with smoke, filled with jaded, tired looking middle-aged men. A cigarette hung from between her fingertips, and L couldn't take his eyes off her mouth. It looked like candy.

"Oh, hello, Amane-san. Fancy seeing you here."

She giggled, and maybe it was L's imagination, but her cheeks seemed to flush pink.

"Ah, I didn't think such an esteemed director like yourself would come to a place like this, Lawliet-san."

He shrugged, pushing back his hair, "I don't like fancy hotels," he gave her a half grin, and his eyes darted around, "it's hardly for the company, though."

Amane laughed again, melodically, and it was the kind of laugh that L could fall in love with, but only for a night. To the right people, L could switch on a certain type of charm. Atypical charm, albeit, not the kind that most celebrities possessed, but eccentric and somewhat endearing to the right person. His eyes went back to Amane, whose fingers drifted over her hair. Maybe he'd fuck her, but it depended on the circumstances, and he wasn't sure if either of them were drunk enough yet.

"It's an honor, to work with you," she said, her tone demure, giving him an awkward, bobbing bow, "I'm a big fan of your work."

He took a sip from his glass, nodding curtly.

"Really? Which is your favorite?"

She looked past him wistfully, "Oh, I'm not sure. I liked _Coup De Grâce _a lot." Her French accent was excruciatingly malformed, "It was so…haunting."

L wondered why she favoured that one—he found it unoriginal, relying on already exhausted character archetypes and an unoriginal setting, but what could he say, it was an early work.

"I didn't even know you could find that thing anymore."

"I h-hunted it down," Misa said quickly, her gaze dropping to the floor shyly, "it was hard, but worth it."

They watched each other in silence. The singer had stopped, and now someone was playing the saxophone. Misa could pass for an American fifties movie star, L thought, smoke was drifting around her face, framing it in wispy, pearly curls.

L took a decisive gulp of his drink, ignoring how the corners of his vision had started to blur.

"Which floor is your room on?" he blurted out.

She turned crimson, "U-uh, the th-third, Lawliet-san."

Well, that settled it. If it had been any higher, L would have decided against fucking her. He hated elevators, and going up too many flights of stairs gave him too much time to realize how much of a fucking idiot he was being.

"Would you like to step outside, Amane-san? And by the way, you can call me L."

God, he was going to hell.

* * *

Perhaps it was L's imagination, but the next day Yagami's disdainful eyes seemed to increase in their disdainfulness. He was watching L with thinly veiled contempt, his upper lip stiff.

"You're a bad person," he told L after a while.

"Good morning to you too, Light-kun."

"You slept with Amane, didn't you, you disgusting creature?"

L narrowed his eyes, "And how do you know that?"

"Well, I only had suspicions, since Misa was so giggly, throwing you amorous looks and wearing a turtleneck. But now I know for sure."

Bastard.

"Is it really any of your business?"

"I suppose not. But I'd just like to say that I think you're human garbage."

"Alright." L could deal with being human garbage. He would have liked it if Yagami had left it at that, and pissed off to go drink coffee and scowl like he normally did, but Light opened his mouth to continue. L audibly sighed.

"She had put you on a pedestal. She would have done anything you said, and you knew that."

"I do know that. I was drunk, Yagami-kun, did you ever consider that?"

"Yes, I did. Being drunk doesn't excuse being an asshole, Kermit."

"Why are you so angry? Are you jealous?"

Light's lip curled.

"Maybe I just don't like you."

"You're awfully audacious for someone who is in a position under me," L countered, "I could fire you at any moment."

"But you wouldn't, because I'm the most famous person here, and without me, this thing would flop. It would end up as another one of those DVDs that belong in the 'reduced' section of any given electronics shop."

"Strong words. I'm well-known too, you know."

"Not well-known enough to drive this thing all by yourself. Good as you may be, we live in a world that only likes pretty brains when there's a prettier face to go with it."

Something flared in the pit of L's stomach that he hadn't felt for a long time. His face, normally so impassive, contorted, and before he knew it, Yagami was pressed against the wall.

"I loathe people like you," L snarled, "you've had everything handed to you, and you've never had to work a day in your life. The industry is polluted by people like you."

"Wow, look at you. The great foreign director L Lawliet—reduced to pushing adolescents around."

"You're not a child."

"I might as well be. That's how people will see me—whatever I do." Maybe it was L's imagination, but his voice seemed to be edged with something like bitterness.

"Child or not, I don't give a damn. You can play noble all you want—but at the end of the day, it's really none of your business. You don't know anything about having to claw your way to where you are now."

Yagami gave him a long look. His eyelashes were long, L noted, long enough to almost tempt L to ask him if he was wearing mascara.

Light shoved L off him, throwing him a long scowl. He slinked off, and L's eyes were transfixed on his back, watching the way his shirt moved over taut muscle.

What a brat.


	2. Chapter 2

"Why are they selling croissants here? I thought it was supposed to be Italian?"

"God, Light. Stop being such an elitist."

"How the hell is vocalizing the difference between Italian and French cuisine 'elitism'? I'm pretty sure it's just common sense."

"This place is nice, okay? And no one will spot us. Oh, and take those glasses off. We're inside and you look like a douchebag."

Light sighed, his eyes darting around the room. The only other people here were a silver haired-couple in the corner, who looked like they were both asleep (or possibly dead) and a preoccupied looking waitress, busy scrubbing away at the counter. Light took his sunglasses off, making sure that Sayu could see his dissatisfaction in doing so, and laid them next to his cup.

"Thank you." Sayu said.

She took a bite of her definitely-not-Italian croissant, wiping traces of cream off the side of her mouth. Unlike him—she wasn't dressed in designer clothes, and adorned no glasses. Sayu Yagami possessed a trait that Light could never comprehend—the complete and utter disinterest in being put on a pedestal.

"How's Touta?" Light asked.

She shrugged, "the same as always."

Light didn't mind Touta too much. He was a bumbling and imbecilic, but he was kind enough, and as long as he didn't hurt his little sister, Light didn't particularly care who happened to be sharing a bed with her. Their father, on the other hand, had expressed disapproval of the relationship, since Touta was a good few years her senior. And Light had agreed, somewhat less vocally, since it seemed like the right thing to do.

"He's too old for you. I don't like that you're dating a cop." He said, parroting what their father had said to her a few months earlier.

"Why should it matter?" She returned, with a roll of her eyes, "It's none of your business. You sound like dad."

"I'm just saying it because I care about you."

She smiled bitterly into her hot chocolate.

"How's that film you're working on?"

"Fine."

It wasn't. Lawliet had treated him with thinly veiled disdain for the past two weeks, and honestly, the sentiment was most definitely mutual. He didn't even see that much of Merrie or Naomi, and Light could tolerate only a few other people. Amane was disorganized and forgot her lines and script, Lawliet was pedantic and was certainly out to get him, and every single other cast member was invariably dull.

"Tell Merrie I say hi next time you see her, okay?"

Light snorted, "If I see her any time soon, sure I will."

"Has she not been around much?"

"She and the director don't get on too well."

Sayu's eyebrows furrowed, "Why not?"

"Don't you remember? L Lawliet?"

"Oh, right." Sayu looked like she was trying to suppress a giggle, "I remember her sending us the wedding pictures. I was thinking 'why would someone as pretty as Merrie go out with someone like him?'"

"Well, he is very rich."

"Light!" Sayu slapped him on the arm playfully, "Merrie wouldn't marry him for something like that, how could you think that?"

"I—I was joking."

"Still…" she shook her head and scraped at her nail polish with her fingernail, and took another sip of her hot chocolate. It was huge, and looked like the visual representation of diabetes, "you know, Light, I can never tell when you're not being serious."

Light stirred his coffee, a small smile on his lips. He'd long since abandoned his drink—it had begun to turn lukewarm, and there was nothing he hated more than lukewarm coffee. He didn't respond to Sayu, and let the silence hang over their heads.

"What do you think of him?" Sayu said, breaking the silence.

"Who?"

"Lawliet."

"You're familiar with his work?"

"Well…" Sayu scratched at the back of her neck gingerly, "I looked up his filmography on Wikipedia."

"Don't feel bad. I did the same thing."

"God, Light, aren't you supposed to be an actor?" she said, laughing.

"Apparently," he muttered, not bothering to conceal the resentment lacing his voice, "and in answer to your question, no, I don't think too much of him."

That was putting it mildly.

Despite their earlier altercation, the both of them knew that in order to make the film, they at least had to keep up the pretense of being able to tolerate each other. Save the occasional dirty look, Light had been forced to pent all his resentment up, and something bad would probably come of it—he'd go on a killing spree or develop an Oedipus complex. He was pretty certain Freud had said something about that.

"Why?"

"He's just—so full of himself. He's not professional, either." His thoughts drifted to Amane, and the love-struck expression she'd worn the day after she'd slept with Lawliet. Even though Light didn't really like talking to her, he couldn't help his instinct to protect her, especially from creeps like Lawliet. Perhaps it was that she had the same naïve, well-meaning nature he saw in his sister.

He leaned back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head. The café, despite its inconsistency in cuisine, had its charms. Namely, despite being a sad imitation of a Western style café, it was warm, unknown and quiet. His eyes skimmed the walls, covered in posters for various European movies. They eventually settled on the window, and with a jolt, Light grabbed for his bag.

"Come on, Sayu, we need to go." He muttered urgently.

"Why?" she asked, "we just got here. I've hardly had any of my drink!"

He grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer, "Listen," he hissed, "there's paparazzi outside the door."

She peered outside, "I don't see anyone."

"There is! I saw them! Now, let's go!"

"Jesus Light, do you hear yourself? Stop acting so neurotic and drink your coffee. Your coffee to blood ratio is probably too low and you've started hallucinating."

"I'm not acting neurotic, Akane. And since when did you know a long word like 'neurotic'?"

"You're not the only one capable of reading a dictionary! And who the fuck is 'Akane'?"

"Your alias. People might realize we're famous."

"God Light, you're ridiculous. This isn't a James Bond movie—we don't need codenames."

"Just fucking look, Akane!"

She did, her eyes falling onto the growing flock of people outside, who looked like they were trying their best to look inconspicuous.

"They'll go away," she said lowly, "we'll stay for a bit."

"No they won't! We need to go now, before they can build up!"

He grabbed his bag and sunglasses, ignoring Sayu's protesting. The waitress shot them a dazed look, and remembering he had to pay, Light began to grope through his bag.

"Where the fuck is my wallet?" he growled under his breath.

"I'll pay," Sayu said, looking through her purse. She slapped two one thousand yen bills on the table, and began to follow Light out.

Light swung the café door open, and was immediately greeted by the clicking of cameras and the shouts of reporters. The familiar feeling of being trapped washed over him, and he felt for Sayu behind him, and grabbing her arm, began to push his way through swarms of people. Where the fuck had they all come from?

"Yagami-kun! Yagami-kun, over here!"

The crowd seemed to get denser, and Light did his best to keep his face impassive, his eyes hidden behind dark shades. At some point, he stopped feeling Sayu's arm in his grip, and continued to push his way through people.

"Sayu?"

He doubted, even if she was still here, she would be able to hear him through the noise.

"Yagami-kun! Do you have time for an interview?" Someone yelled.

"Oh, fuck off!"

Light he'd knew he'd regret his prickliness later—not because he didn't want to rude to the reporter—but because it would come back to bite him if he wasn't careful. People around were starting to look up, and Light's ears were buzzing. He was envious of Sayu—she had the uncanny ability to stay under the radar and out of the public eye. She was still nowhere to be seen—and Light could guess that she probably managed to slip out the crowd—a skill he lacked. There probably wasn't much point in searching for her if she'd already decided to piss off.

Light thought he sighed, but if he didn't, he couldn't hear it over the roar of cameras and reporters. The ground was beginning to spin, and it as getting increasingly hard to breathe.

"Light! Light! Over here!"

"Yagami-kun, could you talk about—"

It was a shame, really, that physical assault was illegal, and generally considered bad form, especially for a celebrity. Light didn't consider himself a violent person—but occasionally the inclination took him over.

He covered his temples with his hands, continuing to tear through the crowd, ignoring the hollering of journalists.

* * *

Smoking had been something L had always been around—his mother and father had both smoked like chimneys. L's mother had hung off the balcony of their apartment in west Croydon, skeletal and sickly, her silhouette black against the gray-blue of English sky. B had tried smoking too—but it didn't look cool when he did it—since he mostly just choked and sputtered.

L had started smoking when he was thirteen.

It wasn't compulsive, not like with his mother (who he was pretty sure had smoked right through her pregnancy)—he could certainly stop at any moment, but smoking went well with his aura of a mysterious, tortured genius. Just like how he generally loathed sitting in parks, but sitting in a park of a grisly, gray day with a cigarette dangling from his lips seemed like a mysterious-genius thing to do.

He had a notebook in his lap, still blank.

"Carrying a notebook around so dutifully won't do anything for your inspiration," Halle had once said to him. They'd been on holiday in the Maldives, and the sky was the color of marshmallows. Halle had loved it, sitting on the beach reading her book, blonde hair spilling down her shoulders. L hadn't told her—but he'd always hated hot weather.

"You never know when inspiration strikes."

"Can't you remember for it a few minutes longer?"

"No. My brain's full of too many other things—I'll forget."

She laughed then—in the way you'd laugh at an eccentric relative when they'd say something bizarre that you had no hope of understanding.

Halle had left him three months later.

The telephone wire L was staring at seemed to be attracting numerous blackbirds. He took another drag of his cigarette, wondering if they were crows or ravens—and which one was the omen of death?

There was a crunch of leaves, and something approaching caught L's eye.

Ah, talking of omens of death.

"I didn't expect to see you here, Light-kun."

Light threw him a scornful look. He was dressed in an expensive coat, to match his expensive hair and expensive shoes. It did little, however, to compliment his vile personality.

"Can I borrow your hoodie?"

L raised an eyebrow, looking down at his clothes. That wasn't what he expected Light to say.

"Like…now?" Light said irritably.

L hurriedly took the thing off and tossed it to Light—who quickly pulled it over his shirt. He pulled the drawstring so his hair—and a good portion of his face—was concealed, and turned away, apparently ready to take off.

L scowled, "are you just going to leave with my hoodie?"

Light paused, and spun to look at L like he'd said something deeply offensive. With a scowl that mirrored L's, Light gestured for him to follow, but not without a loud, relenting sigh.

"Where are we going?"

"I'm going home."

"…Why do you need a hoodie to do that?"

Light huffed, "I just lost some paps."

He withdrew some sunglasses from his bag, and without discretion, slid them up his nose.

"You're just making yourself look more shady, you know. It will just draw more attention."

Light laughed under his breath, "Have you ever been flocked by Paparazzi, Lawliet-san?"

Light probably hadn't intended his words to be insulting, (although L could never be sure with him) but something about them rubbed L the wrong way.

"Yes," L lied, "and I told you. You can call me L."

"I don't want to call you L."

"How do you plan on getting home, by the way? And do I have to follow you?"

Light's eyes fell, "I'm not sure," he admitted, "I don't think I know where we are."

"You could take the train. Or a bus."

Light eyed him with an expression of the utmost disgust, "Be serious. I'll try and find a taxi."

"Have you ever been in a taxi before?"

Light crinkled his nose, "…no."

L laughed disbelievingly, "Rich kids… when they say you haven't worked a day in your life, they were right."

Light ignored him.

"Where can I find some taxis?"

"I'll help you."

"I don't need your help," Light snapped.

L put his hands up, "You seemed confused, my apologies if I came across as patronizing." he said, ignoring Light's responding snort. "Don't you have a chauffeur or something?"

"…My phone's dead."

L studied him. He seemed dazed, as if he was moderately intoxicated.

"Why are you here, anyway?"

"I was out on a walk. And you?"

"I was seeing my sister."

L nodded. They had come out of the park, and were approaching the center of town. They remained quiet until they reached an intersection. Light kept his head down, and L could only watch him with a touch of amusement. He hailed a taxi, and after one halted next to them, he made his move to leave, but not before Light could grab his elbow.

"I… uh…."

"…You…you don't have any money do you?

"…"

"Alright, get in." L said, exasperated.

"I had a wallet before!" Light said defensively, "I left it at the café."

"You know, I was told you were a genius." L muttered, his tone dry.

"I am!"

"I was expecting a little less Paris Hilton and a little more Jennifer Lawrence."

L slid into the taxi, beckoning Light to follow.

"I'm not normally like this," Light promised, running a hand through his hair, "I've had a long day."

"Right."

"I have! You're incredibly patronizing."

"How could you possibly infer that?"

"Don't try and act so innocent, you know exactly what you're doing."

"And what is that?"

"You're belittling me," Light said, gesturing wildly. The taxi pulled away from the curb with a slight jolt, and he jumped, "to assert your authority."

"God, why would I do that? It's almost like I actually _do_ have authority over you."

"Authority comes in many different forms."

"God, you have a lot of nerve to talk to me like that."

"You have a lot of nerve to talk to me _at all_." Light said hotly.

"Oh, oh _wow_."

"I… I didn't mean that. It makes me sound narcissistic."

"You didn't need to say that to make me think you're a narcissist, Light-kun."

Light was about to respond, but they were interrupted.

"Uh… excuse me?"

They both looked up. It was the taxi driver.

The driver cleared his throat, "Uh, you're not Light Yagami, are you?"

And like that, Light's obnoxious exterior vanished.

"Oh, you've heard of me?" he said with a smile, feigning modesty. L was torn between laughing at the audacity and gagging.

"Ah, my daughter likes you." The driver said hurriedly.

"Oh, that's nice. Do you want me to sign something?"

"Wait, uh, if you could sign something—like some paper or—" the driver fumbled in his pocket, and L's eyebrows shot up as his hands came off the wheel.

"Why don't you find something once we get there?" Light said quickly.

It was amazing, really, how Light could pretend like he hadn't just been speaking about himself like he was a deity. He'd even given L a playful slap on the shoulder, as if the whole exchange had just been friendly banter.

People never trusted what celebrities said about each other. But they trusted what fans said.

L didn't say anything for the rest of the ride, wrestling the bout of jealousy in his stomach after Light was recognized.

Light's hotel overlooked the beach. It was the kind of place L found pompous—just as he found Light pompous. It had a red carpet outside, complete with a doorman, the curb lined with expensive sports cars and limousines. The cab felt extraordinarily out of place.

Light graciously signed a napkin for the bumbling driver, who accepted with an awkward, bobbing bow. L paid, making sure Light could see his sour expression as he did so.

"I'll pay you back," Light promised.

"Sure. Right." L muttered, but Light had already disappeared through the lobby doors.

* * *

L really did feel bad about Misa. Generally, he wasn't in the habit of seducing young, vulnerable women. He could just about justify sleeping with her—she was pretty, and she was blonde. She looked at lot like Halle. Well, a younger, Asian, version of Halle. Who'd been flicking through a few too many Lolita fashion magazines.

She was going through her script when L saw her, idly chattering with the set director. She was pretty, even when she didn't have any make up on, dressed in a blue tracksuit, her hair lazily tied in a bun.

"Amane-san?" He called gently.

She looked up, her eyes lighting up, and a grin spreading across her face.

"I'm sorry, Linda," he said, turning to the set director, "may we speak privately?"

Linda looked vaguely offended, but nodded, and scampered off.

"Lawliet-san!" Misa smiled giddily, "nice to see you!"

As exhausted and barefaced as she was, she still looked like she'd just stepped out of a sports magazine.

"Amane-san, let's speak in my trailer."

Misa stared up at him in confusion, but allowed herself to be towed along. As they headed towards L's trailer, L couldn't help but catch Light's eye from across the set. Light glowered at him, and went back to talking to his personal assistant.

_No_, he wanted to yell_, it's not what you think._

"Come on, M—Amane-san."

Once they were inside, L gestured for her to sit. She set herself down stiffly opposite him.

"Is something wrong?"

"I'm not here to court you, Amane-san." L said, taking a deep breath, "in fact, I'm here to express my utmost apologies for what happened a few days ago. I—I would like to say I wasn't in my right mind, but in all honesty I knew better but I did it anyway. I'm incredibly sorry to Amane-san, if she got the wrong impression. In conclusion, I really am incred—"

"You don't have to apologize, really. " Misa said with a laugh, "Tt's alright. I appreciate you feeling sorry, but really, I didn't think you really cared about me in that way either."

"I do care about you—"

"Sure. But not in a relationship way."

L opened his mouth to say something, but ended up closing it again.

"To tell the truth…" Misa continued, twirling a strand of hair with her finger, "I don't want a relationship with you, either. I had put you on a pedestal, because I am a fan of you, but I wasn't thinking either. You're smart, and I admire you, but I don't want to be with you in that way."

"Ah," L said, "that's… good."

"Yeah."

There was quiet.

"I think… I think you reminded me of my ex-wife when she was younger."

"Which one?"

"Halle Lidner."

"Oh, right. Yes, I remember her."

They fell back into

"Would you like a drink?"

"Oh… no thank you."

They were quiet again. L's eyes wandered across the wall, the floor and the ceiling, anywhere but Misa's face.

"I think," he said after a while, "Yagami-kun is on my trail. I must have picked up on the fact that we had some kind of tryst, and seems to have taken a disliking to me ever since."

Misa covered her mouth demurely as she giggled, "He's quite…. intense… isn't he?"

"So it's not just me who thinks that?"

"He bottles it up, mostly. But he seems like the kind of person you wouldn't want to see angry."

"I get what you mean."

He studied her for a while, "People seem to think you're quite stupid," he told her bluntly, "don't listen to them."

"Thank you…?"

She picked up her bag and turned to leave.

"Thank you for the clarification on…. things, Lawliet-san."

"Likewise, Amane-san."

* * *

_L'hôtel De Sud_—as it was called—was excruciatingly long. Light had a short attention span, and rarely had any patience for either long things or pretentious things, and especially long and pretentious things. However, whilst the film was most certainly long, it wasn't nearly as pretentious as Light had anticipated. And had actually, unlike many things, managed to capture Light's interest.

He was so immersed in the story that when his phone rang, he jumped. He paused the film, and reached for it.

"…Hello?"

"Light?"

It was Naomi. He could hear traffic in the background, but her voice was impossible not to distinguish all the same.

"Oh, hello Naomi."

"You've been invited to a party."

Light knit his eyebrows together, and fell back on his bed, "Who by? Are they famous?"

"Kiyomi Takada."

"Takada?" Light repeated with disbelief, "Seriously?"

When Light thought of Takada, he got a headache. Not because he hated her or anything like that—but because the majority of the time he had spent with her in the past he'd been intoxicated in one way or another.

Kiyomi had told him that she didn't want to see him anymore last time Light saw her—why was she calling now?

"Why?"

"How should I know? And are you learning your lines?"

"…Yes."

"No you're not. You may be an actor, Light Yagami, but you can't lie to me."

"I don't need to learn them, you know. I already know them."

"Your memory isn't nearly as good as you think it is."

"Are you sure?" Light said, "I have a lot of actors and directors in my contacts who would say otherwise."

"You and your modesty," Naomi grumbled, "Takada's turning twenty-four, and for some godforsaken reason, she wants you there."

After shutting his laptop, Light stumbled to his feet, the phone balanced between his shoulder and his ear. He had an address book somewhere, Naomi had told him to get one. Even though the only other people who had them were pensioners and housewives.

"What day?"

"A week on Saturday. You're free."

"Do I have to be?"

"Yes. You also got a call from your director man."

"My director man?" he asked, "Do you mean Lawliet?"

"Yes. Him."

"What does he want?"

"To buy you dinner, apparently."

Light snorted, "Really? Is he asking me out on a date? And I don't like him—just as he doesn't like me. Why would he want me to come out?"

"Christ, I know. You rarely talk about anything else. And no, disappointing as it may be, he's inviting the entire cast out. Something about 'needing to get to know everyone'."

"That's bullshit. God, I hate that man. Tell him I accept," he paused, "but make it seem like I'm only inviting him out of courtesy. Also, don't reply too quickly—I don't want to seem eager. And he better be paying."

"…Of course, princess. Now how about Takada-san?"

"Tell her that I'll come. What are the details?"

"Saturday the 21st. 10pm. Her mansion. It's black tie only, which I'm sure you'll appreciate."

"Fine, okay." He could deal with Takada. Like the majority of the world, his boyish smile and pretty eyes easily charmed her. "Anything else?"

"No, actually. Have fun watching that film made by that director you hate so much."

"What… what are you talking about?"

"Light, I have access to your Amazon account. Don't play dumb with me."

And then she hung up.

Light fumed, he ought to fire her. Personal Assistants weren't supposed to possess that amount of cheek. His good nature was paying off her mortgage and putting food on her table.

* * *

Kiyomi Takada was a woman of great wealth, great prestige, and great breasts. Light had many memories of her—when the two of them had been in their late teens—bringing back pretty boys who happened to tickle her fancy—and trampling over their hearts with her 4-inch Valentino stilettos.

Her house was situated in the outskirts of Tokyo, with marble stairs and white peacocks and the air of a house from an episode of _Poirot_. Light had managed to drag along Naomi, who looked completely miserable dressed in a mermaid dress and heels. He had to resist the urge to laugh—in all the years he'd known her, he'd hardly ever seen her out of a leather jacket of some kind of jeans.

"Be nice," she'd hissed at him when they arrived. She then left him wonder off, but not without fear in her eyes, like she'd just let a particularly tempestuous child out in a liquor store.

As much as he wanted to be on his own, as soon as Naomi let him loose people had flocked to him like moths to a flame. He plastered on a smile, answering their questions with as much patience as he could muster. They wanted to know all the standard things, like what he was wearing (a Dior classic trim suit, McQueen straight trousers, new season of course, Jason Ashley stitch detail tie, Bruno Cucinelli shirt, only the best.) Why he had been so hostile to paparazzi the other day, (he'd been extremely tired and stressed, and he was incredibly sorry to anyone he may have offended.) Whether or not he was seeing Takada, (no, they were just good friends) and all the rest. Same as always.

"Yagami-kun?" A familiar voice called through the crowd.

He looked up, relieved to find salvation.

"Ah, Takada-san. Nice to see you," he made sure everyone around him heard. It was a more polite way of telling the lot of them to piss off.

"Sorry boys," Takada smirked, "mind if I steal him for a few moments?"

They scattered, grumbling under their breath.

"Yagami-kun," she tucked a stray piece of dark hair behind her ear, "Shall we?"

He nodded, throwing the others a tight-lipped smile and murmuring an apology, promising to talk later, which he had no intention of actually doing.

He and Takada wandered off together, at first in silence, along the frays of the huddles of people, both of them stealing glances at the windows, just to steal a glance at their own reflection.

"I like your dress," Light said after a while, breaking the silence. Her dress was a gold affair, and its price tag probably looked more like a phone number.

"Reem Acra," she answered smugly, "a Lebanese designer. You heard of her?"

"No," he said. He had, but Takada liked to speak in a way that was beyond other people's comprehension, and it would only benefit Light to get in her good graces. Her father, like his own had once been, was an influential director with links in Hollywood. Plus, he liked Takada, overbearing and haughty as she was; she was pleasant enough company, as far as he could remember.

"Should we go outside?" she asked.

"If you like."

Takada's garden was Light's favorite part of the property, not because it held merit in terms of beauty, which it did, but because it was completely deserted of people—something Light had come to appreciate. As he walked outside, he released a breath and relaxed a touch.

"I hear you're working on a film, Yagami-kun. I'm glad to hear—you've always been incredibly talented," Takada said, "Some British director you're working with, right?"

"Yes. L Lawliet. He's worked on quite a few independent films over the years. Mostly underground. Talented though."

"I heard you don't get along."

Light cocked his brow, laughing airily, "Where'd you hear that?"

Takada shrugged, taking a sip of her cocktail, "A little bird told me."

"Damn. There really is no privacy nowadays, is there?"

"Like either of us aren't used to it."

They stopped, Takada's heels clicking on the concrete.

Before he knew it, there was a hand pulling on his tie and lips against his. For a second, Light couldn't process any kind of thought, simply standing there, letting Takada eat his face.

When his mind came back to him, Light planted his hands on her slim shoulders, and gently pulled her off him. She stumbled back, her eyes searching his, mouth slightly open.

"Ah, Takada-san…"

"Are you gay?"

"Uh…" Light stood there, unsure what to say.

"It's fine if you are," Takada said quickly, "I mean—I always got those vibes."

"What? Really?"

"Yes…"

"What…what could possibly make you think that?"

"Well, I just… you never seemed interested in women," she explained, "You could have five half naked girls draped over you, but you'd only ever be interested in your drink. Don't get me wrong—I thought that maybe you were one of those people who don't like sex and wear purple and grey and things, but then I saw you with your head between Yamamoto-kun's thighs and I presumed you had to be."

"Ah," he nodded, soaking in her words, "Well, it's understandable for you to think that."

She watched him for a long moment, and Light distracted himself with wiping the lipstick off his mouth.

"So…" Takada continued, "Are you?"

"I—I don't think so…" he said, "I always assumed whatever happened with Yamamoto was a result of my nymphomania at the time…"

That wasn't true. Yamamoto had been drunk enough to apparently mistake Light's gender, and Light had been drunk enough not to realize that Yamamoto quite clearly didn't have any intention of repeating the incident. He'd got the idea when Yamamoto introduced him to his girlfriend a week later, though.

"In truth, I don't really like anyone. Male, female or otherwise."

Takada nodded thoughtfully, "So, you are one of those non-sexual people?"

"I wouldn't say that. I'm focusing on my career. And I think you mean asexual."

She waved a hand, "Same difference."

"I think I should go inside, Takada-san."

He started to walk away, but she grabbed his arm before he could leave.

"Call me Kiyomi," she said, "like you used to."

Light regarded her, waiting for her to say something more.

"I'm—I'm sorry if I came across as overbearing," Takada said slowly, "I do—I want to be friends with you. When I don't think about what I'm saying," she waved her hands, "I come across as completely mad."

"You're not mad."

"I know I'm not."

"Why do you want to be friends again? Last time you talked to me you said you didn't want to see me anymore."

"And you were thinking the same thing," she smiled at the ground, "I wanted to let go of the past, and I know you did too. God, Light, we were such idiots."

"I know." He said. They stood there; quiet, letting the chatter from indoors fill their ears.

"You never actually said whether you liked Lawliet or not."

"God no," Light knocked back the rest of his drink, "he's a sentient trash can. I can't stand him."

Takada threw her head back and laughed, "They say you have no sense of humor. You really do, and it's spectacular. Spectacular and cruel."

Light pursed his lips, "No it isn't."

"Yes it is. You can't bear laughing with other people so you settle for laughing at them instead. You can't fool me. I've known you since you were fifteen. You're just as human as the rest of us."

"Maybe I am, I haven't decided," he chuckled, "Don't tell anyone, though."


End file.
